Try Harder
by Zarla
Summary: Learning how to unleash a reverse kick with unfathomable speed is a lot more difficult than you might think.


Note: The first translation I used to get through the game called him Wes and I still can't shake that, so he's just Wes in this. Deals pretty heavily with emotional abuse, so be warned.

* * *

Every day there was something new to learn, and every day there was a new way to fail. He was supposed to know these things before Wes taught him how to do them, and some dim part of him thought that maybe that wasn't fair. A much heavier part of him said, always said, that it wasn't like there was anything he could do about it. That weight was what made it possible to get through the day, get through his training, bear the yelling when that smaller voice said he didn't deserve it. It wasn't like he had a choice. There was nothing he could do. It wasn't exactly strength, not as he understood it, but it made things bearable and he didn't know any other way.

He didn't have anyone to talk to about it, after all. Everyone was always asleep in town, in more ways than one. Their windows were always dark when the two of them were out, and even when Duster was awake during the day and running errands in town for his father, everyone only looked puzzled to see him. Like he didn't belong there, a peculiar young stranger. They knew his name, but they knew his father better - otherwise he was an easily forgotten dream to them. When he'd walked into town with his limp for the first time, their eyebrows had raised a little further, brief questions about his health more common, but no more.

They gave him food, gave him glances and a few questions, but that was all. What else could they have given him, anyway? There wasn't anything they could do. There wasn't anything anyone could do. This was just how things were. This was just what his life was. The thought was like a blanket. All he could do was obey and try.

It worked for him, for now, and wasn't that all that mattered?

They were outside and it was the middle of the night. Everyone else in Tazmily was asleep - their only light came from the moon, the stars, and the lamps lit in his house. It was easy to forget that other people even existed at times like this. Like they were the only ones left in the world, although every now and then he could still hear Leder's bell.

He had no reason to think tonight would be any different from the others. He'd sparred with his father before. Often, as a matter of fact, with the same results each time. Wes told him that he needed to pay attention, that this was meant to teach him something. It did teach him a few things, the first of which was that his father was unbeatable and his father did not ever hold back. Not with anything. It also taught him that he didn't like fighting and he didn't like pain, not that that mattered.

He never said anything though. He never said much of anything really. Wes filled in all the spaces for him. His father's inadequate shadow.

Wes stretched, cracked his knuckles, watched Duster do the same with a critical eye. Duster was favoring his good leg, and Wes could tell. He knew he could tell, and he knew what he was supposed to do, so he gritted his teeth and forced himself to mirror the pose. His left leg flared up with pain, silent warnings, _what are you doing, stop it, stop doing this_, and he ignored it. Wes said his bad leg meant he would have to try harder. So he would try harder. What else could he do?

Wes walked towards him, solid steps with a purpose, and Duster was instantly alert with a shiver of tension. He stayed where he was, kept his weight on his good leg so he wouldn't falter, and his father stopped directly in front of him and placed his heavy hands on his shoulders. Duster wasn't sure what to expect. Was this a test? Had he done something wrong already?

Wes nudged him, and he realized that he was trying to turn him around. So Duster did his best to do so without leaning too much, tried to move smoothly and keep his breathing scared got you killed, Wes had said, being panicky got you killed, being sloppy got you killed, you need to be in control. You need to be prepared for anything. Being scared got you yelled at was what Duster got out of it, not that it changed the lesson.

"Duster." It was hard not to flinch every time he said his name in that tone of voice. "Sometimes, the enemy might get the drop on you. You need to learn how to defend yourself from a back attack."

He was going to fail, he already knew it. He'd never done this before. It was the first time he'd even heard of it. But that didn't matter. He had to try.

"Don't turn around. I'm going to attack you, and you're going to block me. And once you do that, you're going to reverse the attack. When I attack from behind, you're going to attack me first."

This sounded impossible, not that that was unusual. Not that that meant anything. He had no choice.

"You understand, moron?" That sharper edge, his other name and Duster winced again. He nodded, then thought it might be too dark for him to see.

"Yes."

"Think you can do that? Don't want me to explain it again for you?" Already, they both knew how this would end.

"No."

"Alright, get ready."

Duster wasn't sure how. But his body tensed regardless, and he tried to think. It was always so hard to focus when he felt like this, when failure hovered as close as his breath. How was he supposed to know when Wes was going to attack him? He couldn't see him. Maybe he could hear him? But Wes was an expert at moving quietly, it was one of the hallmarks of being a good thief... what was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to know? Maybe...

Wes's foot hit the small of his back, and he yelped and hit the ground. He hadn't heard anything! Pain shot down through his left leg and he felt dizzy.

"Duster! I wasn't even trying! C'mon, get up!"

He was still shaking off the shock of the blow and of hitting the ground so suddenly, he could feel dirt stinging in his scraped palms, his heart hammering, but that didn't matter. Wes told him to do something, so he had to do it. He levered himself up, took in a few shaky breaths, then hissed through his teeth as he struggled to get his left leg to cooperate. It ached, moved slowly, reminded him silently that he shouldn't be doing this. The only one that didn't understand how things had to be.

He staggered to his feet, a few precious seconds to regain his balance that he knew would count against him, and turned around. Wes had his arms crossed, solid and unmoving, and he was familiar enough with that expression that he didn't need to see it clearly.

Wes raised a hand and moved his finger in a circle. Duster hesitated a moment, as much as he could ever dare to spare, and he turned around again. What else could he do?

He hit the ground ten more times before a small whimper escaped him despite his best efforts. He'd been fighting it as hard as he could - he knew he shouldn't, he knew he couldn't, but he just hurt, doing this _hurt_, and when he hit the ground it was jarred out of him and that only made it worse. Another failure on top of the ones he'd already accumulated, and when one slipped, it was hard not to let others follow. _No no no, don't start, don't start. You have to do this, get up, you have to get up._

He was trying with all his might to listen, to force his shivering arms to cooperate, when all of a sudden he felt Wes near him, when had that happened? He didn't have time to process it, only a quick stab of fear before Wes grabbed his collar and hauled him up and he went limp by instinct.

"Are you crying?" And Duster shook his head, biting his lip hard. He wished he wasn't. He really wished he wasn't. He wished he could stop. "What do you think _that_'ll do when the enemy's right behind you, huh?"

He already knew the answer to the question, they both knew. And Wes was right, Wes was always right, what would a monster care if the eleven year old boy it wanted to eat started crying? It wouldn't care.

"Huh? What do you think it'll do, moron?"

"Nothing," he managed to say, and he gulped in a breath of air that he knew he should have taken more slowly. He kept his eyes shut tight.

"That's right," Wes said. He still hadn't let him go. There was a moment of silence as Duster trembled, trying not to whine with effort at keeping everything inside, at making it stop.

Wes sighed, and that was just as bad as if he'd called him a moron again. That same familiar, disappointed, weary sigh. _You failed again, Duster. That's all you ever do._

He let him go and Duster stumbled for a second, unprepared. He looked at Wes, wide-eyed, not sure what to expect now although that small voice hoped that maybe it was over. Maybe he could just go to sleep and disappear for a while.

His father stared down at him, frowning, eyebrows drawn, and Duster lowered his head and wiped at his eyes with dirty palms.

Wes turned away from him, quick and dismissive, and began heading back to the house. "We'll take a five minute break. Then right back to it, understand?"

Small mercies, and he hoped his relief wasn't obvious. Duster nodded automatically before speaking again. "Yeah."

He only took a few steps after him before his leg gave out and he hit the ground again. The pain along his back and sides flared up, like it was as shocked as he was at his body's sudden failure, and it took a few seconds for him to reorient himself, get his breath back. He had to get up, Wes hated it when he tripped, but his leg refused to move no matter how hard he tried. It wasn't fair that one part of him could give up when the rest of him couldn't. _This isn't fair_, that tiny voice's mantra.

He heard Wes's footsteps ahead of him slow and stop, then turn and come back towards him quickly. His heart spiked and his mouth dried as he redoubled his efforts. _Get up, get up, get up._

"Honestly, Duster." Growled out as he felt Wes kneel down beside him, and Duster shut his eyes and his face burned. _No don't, I can do it, I can do it_, but he didn't say anything as Wes looped an arm around his chest and picked him up. He went limp again, what else could he do, as his father carried him back to the house under one arm. Utterly worthless. He didn't need Wes to tell him that, although he did anyway. "We barely even started. You need to get this leg thing under control. You think the enemy's going to care when you can't get up and defend yourself?"

"No." If Wes didn't, why would anyone else? What kind of thief couldn't even walk right? Why couldn't he do this?

It was so much lighter and warmer inside the house, although it did nothing to change anyone's mood. Wes dropped him unceremoniously by the table near the fireplace and walked off, muttering under his breath. He heard, "You're never going to get anywhere at this rate..." before he was out of earshot.

Duster forced himself to sit up, shame pushing him through the pain. His arms felt weak, his back hurt when he moved, but he knew he couldn't stay on the floor. He had to get up, he had to sit down, he had to be normal.

He dragged himself up using a nearby chair, it felt like it took a lifetime, and when he was sitting in it properly, he rested his head against his arms on the table and took deep shuddering breaths. He could feel his heart throbbing through his forehead, a chill though his face felt so warm. There was a feeling along his bad leg like ice water running under his skin. Was he bleeding? He didn't hear anything dripping, but he couldn't find the energy to move to check. When he stayed still, the pain and feelings dulled.

Someone set something down near his head and he looked up, his neck aching. Wes sat down across from him, a cup of water in hand. Duster looked next to his arm - his own cup of water and a piece of nut bread.

"Eat something," Wes said, and Duster blinked. He didn't feel hungry, but he did what he was told. It stuck in his throat, and he coughed when he took a drink. Wes didn't say anything, although now that they were inside where there was light, his expression was enough. Duster looked down at the table, nibbling on the bread more slowly. His eyes felt puffy and sore.

"Duster, that was terrible." After a short pause, and Duster lowered his head further. "You didn't get me once! Not even _once_! I gave you so many chances and you blew all of them! I even snuck up on you backwards myself, and you _still_ couldn't do it!"

Duster sniffled and didn't look up.

"Do you understand how important this is? Knowing how to do this might save your life someday." He tapped on the table with one knuckle. "You need to learn how to do this."

The bread kept getting stuck. He couldn't even taste it. He was too afraid to move and pick up the cup of water though, Wes might think-

"Are you listening, moron?"

His shoulders drew up, his eyes shut tight and stinging. He coughed and nodded.

"Did you _hear_ me?" Wes leaned across the table, closer to him. Each word a sentence, like he was an idiot. His father was always right.

"Yes," Duster said, and a few crumbs hit the table. At least with his head down, Wes couldn't see his face. He was trying. He was really trying.

"I wonder sometimes." Wes sat back in his chair with a hmmph, and he could hear him drink from his own cup. Duster chanced taking his own drink and thankfully, Wes said nothing. The brief moments between were so precious. They were all he had.

He'd cleared his throat a little, and Wes probably wanted him to eat the rest of the nut bread he'd brought him, so he forced it down. The water was gone too soon. An excuse to stay where it was warm and light was gone too soon.

"Can you walk?" Cold, although it was unnecessary. There was only one answer.

"Yes."

"Then we're going to try again." Wes stood up, not taking his eyes off of him, and when he took a few steps in his direction, Duster was quick to follow his lead. He leaned heavily on his right side, wavered, but he was standing. He did not want to be carried again.

Wes nodded, satisfied, and he headed for the door, and Duster limped after him. What else could he do?

He hit the ground another ten times. At least it was the same amount as before and not less. He'd been strong enough to last that long again, that was something. That small voice told him that. It was very hard to hear though. More than that he heard Wes yelling at him to get up, and him yelling at himself to get up, but his body couldn't take anymore. It refused. It refused no matter how hard he tried.

He couldn't even stand. Wes had to pick him up and carry him again and while he never resisted, he'd learned long ago not to resist, he felt so ashamed that it seared like a brand and forced thin whines from his throat.

Wes set him down inside the house on his feet, obviously expecting him to take it from there and he couldn't, he couldn't even do that, he collapsed again and started sobbing because why couldn't he do this, what was wrong with him? Wes sighed, that same sigh, and he picked him up again, _again_, and took him downstairs. His silence burned, and Duster couldn't keep his own. Wes set him down on his bed, and Duster rubbed at his eyes and tried to be normal.

"Duster." Sharp and he tensed, he always tensed.

"I'm sorry," he managed to get out. Wes grabbed his shoulder.

"No." Wagging a finger in his face. "Not 'I'm sorry'. 'I'll try harder'. Understand?"

"Yes." And he nodded.

"You _understand_, Duster?" Louder. _You're so stupid, Duster. You're so stupid. I always have to say it twice to make sure._

"Yes." Louder this time to match his tone, and he covered his face with his hands.

"You _will_ learn how to do this." Wes's grip on his shoulder was like iron. "It will save your life someday."

"Yes." He didn't know what else to say. His thoughts were scattering, and the harder he tried to stop crying, the harder it became.

"You will try harder." A light shake to emphasize it. Duster nodded. "Understand?"

"Yes."

"Tonight you were terrible. Absolutely terrible. But tomorrow you'll be better. Right?"

"Yes."

"_Right_?"

"Yes."

Wes stayed where he was, silent, a hand on his quaking shoulder as Duster sobbed into his oversized sleeves. When he spoke again his voice was lower, a little softer.

"Do you understand why we do this, Duster?"

"Yes."

"You understand why I have to teach you how to do this, right?"

"Yes."

"You understand that it has to be this way, right? We have no choice."

"Yes."

That Duster understood very well.

"Someday, that time will come, and you'll be ready. I'll make sure that you're ready, no matter what it takes." His grip tightened, almost painfully. "And then..." A pause that Duster hadn't expected, and a shift in tone like Wes had rethought what he was going to say. "All that'll matter is that you'll know how. All of this..." Wes waved a hand over him vaguely. "None of it'll matter, as long as you _know_."

"Yes." Not sure of what else to say.

"Do you understand, Duster?"

"Yes."

"We have to do this. _Both_ of us."

"Yes."

A moment. "Are you listening, or are you just repeating yourself, boy?"

"Unh..." He caught the word before it could escape. He moved his hands to look Wes in the eyes, and his father's mouth was a thin line. Duster swallowed. "Uh huh."

His eyes narrowed. Not the right answer.

"Yeah, I... I understand." His voice sounded thin, strange to his ears.

Wes stared at him a little longer, eyes flickering between his own for a few seconds, like he was searching for something. What else was he supposed to say? These were the worst kind of tests. Duster waited, his eyes still watering.

Wes moved his hand from his shoulder up to Duster's hair, and he ran his fingers through it once, gently. Moments like these were incredibly rare, the briefest gesture or hint of affection, of concern, and the intensity of the emotions they invoked, the fierceness with which Duster wanted this, frightened him. He'd rather be afraid of him, rather have Wes yelling at him than touching him like he cared about him. He didn't know what to do with that, or how it made him feel. A part of him said it was all worth it for this, and another just wanted it to always be like this, and another didn't want it at all because it wasn't worth how much it hurt to want it, because it would have been simpler without it.

Wes patted his head twice then mercifully leaned away from him, letting him go. He stood up.

"We're getting back to it tomorrow. Get some rest."

And Wes headed upstairs to his own bed.

When he was younger, sometimes he'd resented Wes for sleeping so far away from him, usually after he'd had a particularly nasty nightmare. He'd wake up in the dark basement all alone, too afraid to call upstairs in case his father was asleep and didn't want to be awoken. Loneliness felt very heavy then.

Sometimes though, the solitude was priceless. Wes was gone, and it was okay for him to ease himself down onto his bed, work his way beneath the covers as slowly as he wanted, and bury his face in his pillow. He couldn't even remember all the places Wes had hit him, it all blended into an indistinct mass of throbs and aches. Even so, he was exhausted enough that it wasn't hard for sleep to find him, and he'd always been good at sleeping. One thing in his life he genuinely enjoyed, even if Wes showed up in his dreams, as he often did.

He was different a lot of the time there though. They both were.

* * *

A week afterwards, and each training session still ended the same way.

Another week, and he spun around in time for Wes to kick him in the stomach instead. If Wes had congratulated him for it, he didn't hear him over his retching.

Another week, and he caught Wes's foot for the first time. For a brief moment, Wes had smiled at him, before he'd broken free and Duster slammed into the ground again.

Another week, and he met Wes's foot with his own for a second before his other leg crumpled and he fell. He could see the disappointment in Wes's eyes cloud over what might have been a brief spark of pride, and it hurt deep down.

When he finally landed a reverse kick, too quick for Wes to deflect just like he wanted, he knocked him to the ground. Duster was quick to limp over to him, to see if he was alright, but he found Wes laughing instead.

"Took you long enough, moron." It was so rare to see his father smiling. Duster didn't know how to react at first, caught somewhere between excitement, giddiness, and fear. Wes eased himself up off the ground, brushed himself off and he was still laughing for some reason. Was he happy with him? That didn't seem possible. "I was beginning to think you'd never figure it out. C'mon, let's go get cleaned up at the hot spring."

"The hot spring...?" Duster trailed behind him with quick small steps, fidgeting with his fingers.

"Yeah, moron." Although he said it more warmly, like it was a nickname. It wasn't a nickname and it still hurt, but it was a blunt sort of pain. "We've been working hard. It'd do us both some good."

His father's rare good mood made him feel braver than before, enough so to keep speaking, to try and have a conversation. "Yeah... that sounds nice..."

Wes hmmphed, but he was smiling, and it was contagious. Duster felt the most absurd urge to start crying, he just felt so _relieved_. Like an intense pressure had been lifted off him, and he didn't know what to do without it. He felt too light, like this was too good to be true, his heart racing like he was falling, so many feelings all at once he didn't know how to handle.

He wished with all his strength, as he always did at times like these, that it could always be like this, that Wes could always be like this. That Duster could always do things right. He'd do anything just to keep things like this, to keep feeling like this, anything. Anything to keep Wes pleased with him, anything to feel like Wes liked him, anything except the constant disappointment.

Their training had run late, and day was starting to break when they finally got to the spring. He kept close to Wes's heels, too wary of saying something wrong to try speaking again, but desperate to be close to him when he was in a good mood, begging for another scrap of kindness. Wes didn't seem to notice, which was better than most of the alternatives as far as Duster was concerned, and eventually shooed him away so he could get undressed.

Duster was taking off his shirt when he heard something behind him and he snapped around, automatically, just like he'd been taught. It was a man, too far away to be a real threat, though he jumped a little at Duster's sudden reaction regardless.

"Oh, it's you, Isaac," Wes said, unconcerned, and Duster relaxed a little. "Out early looking for mushrooms?"

Isaac was looking directly at him, and it made Duster uncomfortable. What was he staring at? He looked to Wes, wondering if maybe he had an answer. Usually his father seemed friendly when he spoke with the other villagers, or at least not _as_ severe as he was with Duster, but now his gaze hardened a little.

"What is it?" Like a challenge.

Isaac adjusted his glasses, and Duster thought about putting his shirt back on. "What happened to him?"

"Hmm?" Wes tilted his head, his harsh look now gone, then waved a hand and turned back to getting ready for the hot spring. "Oh, that. It's nothing. Thief training. Nothing for you to worry about."

Isaac had that same look as the other villagers when Duster had first walked into town with his new limp. Concern, but why? Duster hadn't done anything wrong this time. He'd actually done something right for once, and he could prove it.

"That why you're using the hot spring?" Isaac said, carefully. Duster looked back at his father. Wes was already getting in, not concerned about the conversation in the least.

"An old man deserves to relax sometimes." A slight mocking air around the term 'old man'. Everyone in town called him that, and Duster knew he didn't like it.

"And you, Duster?" Isaac took a step closer to him, adjusting his glasses again. Still his brow was knitted with concern. Duster was never comfortable when people looked at him like that. It never looked right, like it wasn't_ for _him. "Are you alright?"

"He's fine. Get in, Duster." Wes waved a hand again, and he let out a long sigh. Already the hot spring was doing its work.

"I'm okay," Duster said eventually, quite softly.

"You're covered with bruises." Isaac was close enough to whisper.

Duster tilted his head, blinking. "I know." He matched Isaac's tone, although he didn't know why. Isaac kept looking at him, like he wanted to say something else.

"Duster!" And he jumped, scrambling out of his clothes. He knew better than to ignore that tone of voice, and he nearly leapt into the spring. The hot water sent a sudden stab of pain through his bad leg, and he hissed.

"Don't rush in, moron! Ease into a hot spring."

"Uh huh."

Wes's good mood was gone as quickly as it came, but they'd never lasted long anyway. Duster kept his eyes focused on the shifting water in front of him, trying not to think. He shouldn't have rushed in like Wes said, Isaac probably thought he was stupid. He didn't mean to be. He was just trying to do what Wes told him to do, he was always trying to do things right but he kept getting them wrong. At least the heat and steam hid how ashamed of himself he felt. Everyone got red in a hot spring, right?

The hurt was starting to fade away into a numb, warm feeling, deep aches that felt like they'd been there forever finally disappearing. It was like the water could force his body to unknot itself, make all of his muscles just let go and relax for once. He didn't get to relax very often. Maybe things would be okay. Maybe Isaac understood what happened and didn't think he was dumb.

Duster turned to look and see if Isaac was still there and he was, and he still had that concerned expression. Did he want something? What was wrong? What did he want to say? Duster tried to give him a questioning look.

"Pay no attention, Duster." Wes had his eyes closed and his head leaned back. Duster looked between the two of them, then reluctantly followed his lead. He did what his father told him, after all.

They stayed in the hot spring until Duster felt boneless and lazy, his hands floating near the top of the water, his eyes almost closed as he breathed long and deep. Nothing hurt at all, not even his leg. All the bruises and scrapes from the past weeks gone, just distant memories like all of it had never happened, like it wouldn't happen again. No life outside the warmth and steam, the gentle pressure of the water around him like he was being held. Who knew he, or anyone, could ever feel this peaceful? He could stay in here forever, he _wanted _to, but he knew it couldn't last.

Even so, when he heard Wes get out, he closed his eyes and hoped that maybe he'd still have a few more minutes, maybe Wes would just leave without him and let him stay, that'd be nice...

He honestly didn't think he heard Wes the first time he called his name, he was so absorbed in how wonderful it felt to not hurt at all anywhere. Was this what other people felt like all the time? It was hard to imagine. Wes was not so gentle with his second try, and that jolted him awake. Still, it was hard to move quickly, even though he knew he couldn't linger.

Every time Duster left a hot spring, he always hoped that maybe this time, when he pulled himself out of the water and tried to stand, his leg would be better. It never was. All his other pains gone, but that one ran too deep. Still, he couldn't help but hope anyway.

He missed the warmth of the water instantly, and he shivered and felt very small and vulnerable. Wes glared at him, already mostly dressed so there was no question that Duster would lag behind him. He tried not to favor his right leg as he made his way over to his clothes, hoping that maybe that'd show he was really making an effort to be good and that a lecture wasn't necessary. As usual, his leg refused to cooperate and that familiar stiffness began to work its way through it, a dead heaviness with a dull ache.

Maybe next time it would work.

When he leaned down to pick up his clothes, he found a nut and a mushroom on them that he was sure weren't there before.

The villagers gave him things a lot, usually after he'd been training particularly hard, and usually with the same look that Isaac had given him. A cookie, a mushroom, a piece of bread. He always appreciated a gift, particularly when he was hungry. But it didn't change anything.

He tripped on the way home, right in the middle of town, and Wes scolded him, as he always did, and he tried not to do it again, or think about whether or not some of the other early risers had overheard what Wes had said, or what they might think of his stupid clumsy boy. It was hard to remember that he'd finally succeeded at the reverse kick he'd been trying so hard to learn. It was so quickly pushed out of his memory by the endless list of new things he did wrong. It was always that way. After all, as Wes proved soon enough, he couldn't pull off the reverse kick_ every_ time.

Every day a new thing to learn, every day a new way to fail.


End file.
